


In western lands beneath the Sun

by FindingFrancis, lebearpolar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dean/Cas Reverse Bang, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 17:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FindingFrancis/pseuds/FindingFrancis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lebearpolar/pseuds/lebearpolar
Summary: A former warrior, cast out by his people long ago, the fae Castiel travels the realm alone. Until one day he comes upon a young prince, on a journey of his own to a mysterious destination, and agrees to serve as his bodyguard. In Dean Winchester, crown prince of the realm, Castiel finds an unlikely friend, an unexpected love -- and a new purpose.





	In western lands beneath the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [2019 Dean/Cas Reverse Bang](https://deancasreversebang.tumblr.com/). Inspired by the incredible artwork of [FindingFrancis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FindingFrancis/), whose beautiful portrait of Castiel, accompanied by an exceptionally compelling prompt, set my mental gears turning immediately. Check out the art masterpost [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19220545).

Castiel opened his eyes.

He was lying on the floor of the forest, his pack beneath his head for a pillow. He had overslept; the sunlight filtering through the treetops was already bright, and birdsong was ringing out from tree to tree. He’d meant to wake before dawn.

Groaning a little, he rolled over and ran a hand over the weapons laid out beside him: bow, arrows, sword, knives. The daily check that had been drilled into him a thousand times as a soldier. Castiel was no longer a soldier, but some habits weren’t worth attempting to break.

He got to his feet, joints cracking, and stretched out his massive dark blue wings. He flapped them a few times to dislodge any twigs or leaves from his feathers. Then he folded them tightly against his back as he slung his bow and pack across his shoulders and scuffed out the remains of last night’s campfire with the toe of his boot.

Shielding his eyes, Castiel looked up towards the forest canopy, judging the placement of the sun to regain his bearings. He wasn’t going in any particular direction. He wasn’t even sure exactly where he was, only that he was miles from the closest town.

He finally picked a direction at random and started off, the crunching of his boots against dried leaves the only thing he could hear apart from the incessant birdsong. Just as Castiel’s mind was drifting, relaxing into the rhythm of his walk, a strange sound caught his ear.

He cocked his head slightly, listening intently. There were voices carrying across on the breeze, rough voices that caught on his sensitive ears like brambles. And then – cut off almost instantly, but recognizable nonetheless – a scream.

Castiel had already started to run, spreading his wings out behind him. He flapped them once – twice – and lifted into the air, flapping hard in the dead air to make his way above the treetops. He broke through canopy and glided over the forest, his sharp eyes peeled for any disturbance below. Even with the wind whistling in his ears, he could hear the coarse voices that had first caught his attention. As he flew towards the commotion, the voices grew ever louder.

Finally he dropped silently into a tree below, startling several birds. Moving as quietly as possible, Castiel climbed down from branch to branch. As he progressed further down, the scene beneath him became clear.

There was a clearing just below, where a group of rough-looking humans were gathered, all of them armed with cheap – but plentiful – weapons. Some of them leaned against tree trunks or lounged on the ground, but a group of four was standing guard over a young man trussed up and tied to a tree, his hands bound behind his back.

Castiel could tell even from a distance, and without a clear view of the man’s face, that he was of noble blood. The way he held himself and the make of his clothes – plain though they were, they were clearly well-made – gave him away instantly. Not to mention the fact that he must have been carrying quite a bit of gold: one of the would-be kidnappers was hefting a small leather sack from hand to hand, its contents clinking.

“I still say we should kill him,” one of the men said, leering with a yellow-toothed smile. “More trouble than he’s worth, this one.”

“No,” said the ruffian with the sack. “We should keep him alive. Hold him for ransom. There’s more where this came from.” He held it up, jingling the contents again.

“There’s not!” the young noble burst out. “I _told_ you, my father was a merchant, but he’s dead now. Everything he left me is there in that bag – there’s no one else – argh!”

Another of the thugs had punched the nobleman, snapping his head to one side. Blood dripped down into the young man’s green eyes as the other thugs roared with laughter. Castiel edged ever further down the tree, slowly pulling his bow from his back and drawing an arrow from his quiver. He was almost close enough now…

“He doesn’t have to be alive to hold him for ransom,” the yellow-toothed thug pointed out. “Let’s just kill him now and take this funny necklace to prove we have him.” He pulled a cord from around the nobleman’s neck and tugged hard, but the cord refused to break. “Why won’t this damn thing –”

But before he could finish his sentence, he was falling backwards, helplessly clutching at the arrow suddenly lodged in his own throat. It took a second or two for the others to realize what was happening, to mobilize, and in those few moments Castiel had shot four more arrows into the crowd, felling four more men, and leapt down from his tree, landing catlike in the middle of the clearing. He spun around, letting more arrows fly as he moved, then dropped his bow and drew his silver sword from its scabbard.

The remaining kidnappers were advancing on him now, their own weapons drawn, shouting over each other in anger. Castiel wasn’t worried; he’d taken on far worse odds before. But even as he was twirling his blade, ready for the battle, the nobleman shouted from behind the others. “Untie me!” he said. “I can help!”

Pausing for only a moment, Castiel drew a short knife from his waist and flung it towards the captive. He barely heard the thunk of the blade into rope and wood before the men had fallen upon him, and he was whirling and slicing within their midst.

It had been far too long since Castiel had seen battle. He felt a sharp smile spread across his face. These men had no finesse, only brute strength on their side, and Castiel lunged and parried between their thick bodies, cutting them down with ease. Within minutes, there were only two left: the leader, who still carried the sack of gold in one hand, and one lithe-limbed fellow who kept ducking just out of the way of Castiel’s blade.

Castiel bumped up against a tree trunk and snarled – the two men had somehow gotten him cornered. His head whipped from side to side, trying to keep them both in view. Castiel raised his sword – and suddenly the leader sagged and fell forwards into the grass, Castiel’s own knife lodged in his back. The young nobleman stooped down and wrenched it out, readying it to throw at the other man – but he was already falling too, Castiel’s sword protruding from his chest.

“Took you long enough,” Castiel grunted, kicking the two bodies away as he stepped forward into the clearing.

“Maybe if you’d actually untied me,” the nobleman said, wiping his sweat- and blood-soaked brow, “instead if just throwing your knife in my general direction and hoping for the best.”

“You got free, didn’t you?” Castiel wiped his sword on the grass and re-sheathed it. “I’ll have that back now,” he added, gesturing for the knife.

But the other man was running his fingers over it, eyes wide. “This is a beautiful weapon,” he murmured. “The craftsmanship – ”

“Yes, I know, it’s exceptional,” Castiel snapped. “Now please give it back.”

Reluctantly, the nobleman let the knife slip through his fingers, his eyes following the blade as Castiel tucked it back into his belt. “You know,” said Castiel, “if you wanted to pass for a peasant, you should have dressed like one.”

“I did!” the younger man exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. “These are servants’ clothes!”

“Exactly,” Castiel grunted. “Servants’ clothes. Far too fine than any farmer or villager – or, who were you pretending to be, a merchant’s son? – has any business wearing.”

“Oh,” the noble said, deflating slightly. “Well. I thought I was inconspicuous enough.”

“Evidently not,” Castiel responded dryly.

“I’m Dean, by the way,” the young man said. “Thanks for saving my life, I guess. Even though I really did have it handled.”

Castiel laughed. “Sure, you had it handled. You were seconds away from being murdered.”

“I had a plan!” Dean insisted. “And anyway, I saved you, too. You should be thanking me.”

“You took out one of your kidnappers,” Castiel said. “I took care of the other dozen.”

“Who are you, anyway?” Dean asked, slumping down into the grass. Now that the fight was over and the adrenaline was draining out of him, he looked very pale. And very, very young.

Castiel sat cross-legged across from him. “My name is Castiel.”

“And you’re a fae,” Dean said, sounding a little awestruck.

“What gave me away?” Castiel flexed one of his wings. Dean chuckled. “Have you not met many of my kind before?”

“No, there aren’t too many at the pa –” Dean cut himself off. Castiel raised an eyebrow.

“Can I trust you?” Dean asked suddenly.

“You’ve only just met me,” Castiel said evenly. “Why would you think you could trust me?”

“You saved my life.”

“Perhaps I only saved your life so that I could hold you for ransom myself.” They stared at each other for a few moments, Castiel’s electric blue eyes holding Dean’s forest green ones.

“No,” Dean said slowly, “I don’t think so.” And then, in the same breath, “Will you be my bodyguard?”

Castiel stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“I’m travelling west,” Dean said. “It’s a long journey, and clearly I need some protection. If you agree, I can give you anything you want. Any amount –”

“I don’t want money,” Castiel said quietly. “I have no need for it.”

“Then what – ?”

“You cannot give me what I want.”

“I’m sure that I can,” Dean insisted. “Just tell me.”

“Tell me who you really are,” Castiel said quietly, “and I’ll tell you what I want.”

Dean took a deep breath, then rolled his right sleeve back, revealing the freckled skin of his forearm. He pressed two fingers of his left hand to the inside of his wrist. Castiel’s eyes widened as a silver tattoo appeared, etched into Dean’s skin. A “W”, set inside a circle of flames.

“You are a very long way from home,” he murmured, “Your Highness.”

Dean Winchester, crown prince of the realm, looked into Castiel’s face with the bold confidence only a royal could muster. “Tell me what you want,” he said, “and I will give it to you. I promise that, whatever it is, it is within my power.”

“I want to serve,” Castiel said. Dean blinked in surprise.

“You –”

“For many years,” Castiel continued, “I served as commander of the fifty-third battalion in the Great Army of my people. I was a good soldier, and an excellent leader. But I lost my command” – he grimaced – “and I was cast out from the Army, from the fae themselves.”

“Why – ?”

“It is not for you to ask,” Castiel said, his voice so icy that Dean flinched. “All that I wish, young prince, is to have a command again, no matter how small. To serve a king, even if it is your human father and not the great Lord of the Fae. Is it within your power to grant me such a position?”

“Would the Royal Guard suffice?” Dean asked, with barely a hesitation.

“I – yes,” said Castiel, taken aback. “I suppose it would.”

“Perfect,” Dean said. “We have a deal. You protect me on my journey, and when we return to the palace, you will take over command of the Royal Guard.”

“Just like that?” Castiel murmured.

“Just like that,” said Dean. “I trust that you will serve my family well.” He stood up and held out his hand.

Rather than taking it, Castiel raised himself to kneel on one knee and bowed his head. “I swear to protect you and to serve you, my prince, for as long as I live. Do you accept my pledge of service?”

Dean was staring at him, his face pale again. Castiel wondered how many centuries it had been since a fae last swore fealty to a human royal. He himself had never heard of such a gesture. “I accept,” Dean said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Excellent.” Castiel got to his feet and wiped his knees. “We should be going then, Your Highness. We should try to make it to the next town by nightfall, so you can buy yourself some proper peasant clothes.”

Castiel retrieved his arrows from the bodies and Dean cleansed his wounds with water from one of the kidnappers’ canteens. Just before they were ready to set out, Dean knelt down and pried the sack of gold from the leader’s cold fingers. Dean kept his eyes averted, his face slightly green. Castiel, watching him, wondered if this was the first time he’d ever taken a life.

“Ready?” he asked Dean. Dean turned to face him, pale still but resolute. He swallowed.

“Ready.”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, they didn’t reach the next town by nightfall. Both of them were tired from the fight, Castiel more so than he had realized, and they were slowing down tremendously after a few hours’ journey. By the time the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, and the trees still hadn’t thinned, Castiel decided to call it a night.

“We’ll camp here,” he said, dropping his pack unceremoniously onto a stump. Dean dropped almost immediately to the ground. None of his wounds looked too serious, but he was covered from head to toe in scrapes and bruises. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

“Stay here,” Castiel said, tossing Dean the knife that he had so admired earlier. “I’ll go catch us some dinner.” Dean made as though to stand up, but Cas gave him a look that said otherwise. “Stay here,” he repeated, “and _rest_.”

He was surprised, when he returned with a pair of coneys hanging from one hand, to find a crackling fire waiting for him. “You started a fire,” he said, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice.

Dean glared at him. “I’m not entirely useless,” he grumbled. He held his hand out for one of the rabbits, and Castiel gave it to him, watching with growing wonder as Dean deftly skinned the creature and positioned it on a spit above the fire to roast. Castiel finished with his own mere seconds before Dean.

Some of the color returned to Dean’s face as they ate in silence, both of them warmed inside and out by the gentle heat of the fire and the satisfaction of a full stomach. “You’re so consistently surprised that I’m capable,” Dean said once they had both finished eating, and were leaning comfortably against their packs as they digested.

“I admit,” said Castiel, “that I would not expect such survival skills from a young royal.”

“My father the king raised my brother and me to be skillful at everything, especially survival,” Dean explained. The flickering firelight left half his face in shadow. “No one is safe in this world, not even princes. We must be ready for whatever comes.”

“Very forward-thinking of him,” Castiel observed.

“Yes,” Dean said darkly. He had put a hand to his throat, and Castiel suspected an injury until he realized that Dean was fingering the amulet that hung on a cord around his neck. Cas couldn’t get a good look at it in the fading light, but it seemed to be a sort of face, carved into burnished bronze. He opened his mouth to ask about it, but at the faraway look on Dean’s face, decided against it.

They conversed a little longer, Dean about his childhood at the palace, Castiel reflecting on his time spent wandering the plains and forests of the realm as a lone fae, until the fire faded to embers and the sky was full dark. They stretched out on either side of the fire, staring through the canopy of trees at the stars above.

 

* * *

 

As it happened, they weren’t nearly as far from the next village as Castiel had feared. He and Dean rose before dawn the next morning – neither had slept particularly well, though neither mentioned it – and set off.

The sun had just begun to rise, the sky transitioning from midnight blue to pale pink, when they broke through the trees at last, emerging onto a peak that overlooked a sprawling assortment of houses and shops in varying states of disrepair. As they trudged down a steep rocky path, they passed a weather-worn sign that identified the town below as Carthage.

The early risers in the village of Carthage met with a strange sight when they threw open their windows that morning: a fae with dark blue wings and bright blue eyes, armed to the teeth, walking side by side with a young man in servants’ clothing with the bearing of a king.

This strange pair stopped first at the town’s only inn, where the bleary-eyed proprietor at the front desk sent them upstairs to a cramped attic room. They exited mere minutes later, unencumbered by their packs and (most of) their weapons, and made their way to the tailor’s – Dean emerged looking distinctively shabbier, but somehow no less regal – then returned to the tavern on the bottom floor of the inn for some breakfast. The rest of the town was awake by now, and more than a few prying eyes were drawn to the motley pair of strangers.

Ignoring them, Dean and Cas stuffed their faces full of eggs, cheese, and bread. “Where exactly are we going?” Castiel asked Dean, for the umpteenth time now.

“West,” Dean said, once again infuriatingly vague.

“Dean,” Castiel said calmly, “how am I supposed to protect you if I don’t know where it is we’re going?”

“I told you where we’re going,” Dean said. “West. By the way, did you notice a smithy on the High Street?”

“I think so,” said Cas, reluctant to change the subject. “Why?”

“I need to make something.”

“Make something?”

“This sword is terrible.” Dean patted the battered sword at his hip, taken from one of the dead men they’d left back in that clearing, “and I’d like to make it into something else.”

“How?” asked Castiel, genuinely confused.

“In the smithy,” Dean said. He pushed back his chair and stood up without a backwards glance, dropping a few coins onto the table as he did so. Castiel hurriedly followed after him.

The town blacksmith was a soot-covered blonde girl a head shorter than Castiel. “I’m Jo,” she said, thrusting a hand out for each of them to shake. “What the hell do you two want with my forge?”

Castiel couldn’t say exactly how it happened, but within ten minutes Dean was at work at the forge, Jo flitting back and forth, torn between her own work and watching Dean carry out his. Cas couldn’t blame her: he himself sat in a corner, and watched Dean with wide, wondering eyes.

Castiel had seen many weapons forged over the years, but always with the use of magic and complicated spell work. Dean, a mere human, was somehow transforming three mediocre swords repurposed from the kidnappers into something altogether new – and, Cas could see already, remarkably superior. It was amazing to watch him work, hammering here, holding the blade to the fire there, wearing down the metal to its very core and then combining it with another piece.

In just a few short hours – the time truly flew as Castiel watched Dean’s progress – Dean was holding a sword in his gloved hand comparable (at least to the naked eye) to Castiel’s own: a sharp, deadly blade that gleamed silver.

Jo took it in her own hands, hefting its weight. “It’s so light,” she marveled. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

Dean shrugged. “I used to watch the blacksmiths all the time back home. Must have picked it up there.”

Jo and Cas both stared at him, waiting for a longer explanation, but Dean merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled wryly.

“I’ve never seen something like that,” Castiel admitted as he and Dean made their way back to the inn.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, sounding honestly surprised. “You were in the Great Army. Didn’t you see thousands of swords forged?”

“Yes,” said Castiel, “but we fae use magic. It is still an impressive feat but… I have never seen anyone do what you just did without a drop of power.”

“The sword is of no importance unless I know how to use it,” Dean said.

“You’re already trained to fight.”

“Not like you, though,” said Dean. “I can throw a knife and swing a sword, but what you did back there – in the heat of battle – all those men coming at you.” He shivered slightly. “I’ve only ever fought one on one, in practice. That was my first real fight.”

“You did well,” Castiel said, not entirely dishonestly.

“Teach me,” Dean said suddenly.

“What?”

“Teach me how to fight. The way you do, like a proper warrior.”

“Dean…”

“Please.” They had reached the inn now, beginning to make their way up the narrow staircase to their room. On the next landing, Dean stopped in his tracks and turned on the spot, trapping Castiel against the wall. “I need to be better, Cas. I need to be able to protect the ones I love.”

“Fine,” said Cas, startled by this sudden urgency. “I’ll teach you.”

“Good.” Dean was gone, several steps above Castiel before he realized he was no longer ensnared by the prince. “We start tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Dean’s main problem, Cas found in the ensuing days, was that he was too confident. He had a fair amount of talent, to be sure, but also the arrogance of someone who was too used to winning. If Castiel pulled back just a little bit, let Dean get a little comfortable, it was no challenge at all to sweep back in under his guard with an unexpected lunge or feint, and take him down.

“How – do you keep getting – inside my guard?” Dean gasped, his face red and his light brown hair dark with sweat. Castiel twirled his blade unnecessarily – Dean scowled – and thrust it back into its sheath in one clean motion.

“You’re too much in your head,” he said. “Fight with your body, not your mind.”

“That makes no sense,” Dean snapped. “Of course I’m fighting with my body.”

“No,” Castiel retorted. “You are _using_ your body as a vessel, but you are letting your mind control the movement of your sword. This may have worked for you in practice and training, but in a real fight? You must let instinct be your guide. Again.”

They had been travelling for over a week now, still to an unknown destination somewhere to the west. Dean was improving, ever so slowly, but was increasingly frustrated with Castiel’s lessons. Humans, Castiel had found, were far too contemplative for their own good, even if they didn’t realize it.

A fae fought on instinct. The sword or bow or knife was just an extension of their body, another limb to be controlled. Perhaps it was because the fae already had two limbs that humans didn’t – wings to be operated completely independently from their arms and legs. Cas had attempted to explain this to Dean on multiple occasions already, but Dean only became more exasperated.

“Again,” Cas said. “Again.”

Dean rushed in, sword slashing wildly, and Castiel easily sidestepped his attack. Dean feinted to one side and attempted to slice at Castiel’s legs; Castiel leapt into the air to avoid his attack. “You’re making the same mis –”

A second blade, a knife, was speeding towards his head. Castiel dropped like a stone to avoid it, landing on his back and crushing his left wing. He cried out as a sharp pain tore through his wing.

“Cas!?” Dean was crouching over him in a second, his green eyes full of concern. “I’m so sorry, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Cas grunted. “Just knocked the wind out of me. You did well, Dean.” He attempted to hide his grimace of pain behind a proud smile. “Would you mind going to collect some firewood while I catch my breath?”

“Sure,” said Dean, scrambling up again. “I’ll be right back,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the trees.

Once he was out of earshot, Castiel pushed himself up into a sitting position, swallowing another cry of pain as his wing throbbed once more. He had sustained an old war injury in that wing; his fall must have torn something open again.

Almost whimpering from the pain, Castiel tried to extend his wing in front of himself so that he could reach the injury – he had some salve in his pack that would help – but the effort of spreading it was almost worse than the tear itself.

“I know you weren’t okay.” Castiel looked up through blurry eyes to see Dean standing above him, a bundle of firewood falling from his arms. “Where did I hurt you?”

“It’s – an old injury – nothing too – argh!” Castiel convulsed in pain again, and Dean dropped to his knees beside him.

“What can I do?” Dean asked, his voice calm and collected.

“There’s some salve in my pack,” Castiel said through gritted teeth. “It should numb the pain.”

He could barely stand to open his eyes, but he heard Dean rifle through his pack, and felt him sit down behind him. He braced himself for the rough feel of Dean’s hands. Instead, he felt Dean’s fingers, gentle but sure, working their way down his wing until he found the spot of ruffled feathers that masked the old injury. Dean carefully smoothed them aside and worked the salve into the scar.

Castiel let himself relax, leaning into Dean’s hands as they continued to work through his feathers, feeling through to the tendons beneath and working the salve into them. It wasn’t until Dean came to a stop that Cas realized he was actually falling asleep, his head practically on Dean’s shoulder.

“Is that better?” Dean asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Castiel’s eyes flickered open. “Yes,” he breathed. “Thank you, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

Cas was sore for the next few days, but he insisted on keeping up with Dean’s practice. Something had changed in Dean; he had a new determination about him, and a casualness to his actions that he hadn’t had before.

He seemed, at any rate, more comfortable in his own skin, and Castiel loved watching him enjoy himself so heartily as they sparred; he couldn’t help but be taken in by Dean’s infectious enthusiasm.

One day, about a week after Castiel had been injured, they were practicing archery. Dean didn’t have as much experience with a bow and arrow as with a sword, and Cas was enjoying teaching him the finer points of technique.

Dean closed his eyes, pulled back – and the arrow he had been aiming into the nearest tree trunk shot straight up into the air. They both watched it disappear into the tree canopy, waiting for it to fall back down to earth. Nothing happened.

“Hang on,” Cas said, and sprang up from the ground, wings pumping furiously as he soared into the air, weaving through the branches. He caught hold of a branch about halfway up the tree and found the arrow stuck in a knot. Wrenching it free, he leaned down to tell Dean that he had found it – but the clearing was empty.

Immediately Cas’s heart jumped into his throat. He looked all around, but couldn’t see Dean anywhere. “Dean?” he called, his voice shaking. “DEAN?”

“Calm down, old man. I’m right here.” And indeed, Dean was just a few branches down, looking up at Castiel with a boyish grin on his face, the bow slung over his shoulder.

“You scared me half to death,” Castiel breathed, as Dean clambered up the last few branches to sit across from him. “How did you get up here so fast?”

“I’m full of surprises,” Dean said, flashing another grin at him.

“Well,” said Castiel, laughing, “I’m sure you can’t get down as quickly.” And with that, he let go, allowing himself to plummet to the earth, only opening his wings at the last possible second before he hit the ground.

“Well, hello there, feathers,” said a gravelly voice. “We’ve been waiting for you.” Before Cas could react, there were three men on him, clapping his wings to his back and wrenching the sword from his waist. As they manhandled his wings, his old injury tore open again, filling him with instant agony. Castiel closed his eyes and prayed with all his might that Dean would have the good sense to _stay in the tree_.

“Where’s your other half, then?” the thug asked, poking Castiel painfully with his own sword. “Where’s the princeling?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Castiel said through gritted teeth. “I travel alone.”

“Like hell you do,” the man said, picking up both Castiel’s and Dean’s packs and shaking them violently, flinging their contents in all directions. “Why’ve you got two packs then, if it’s just you?”

“I – they’re both mine –”

“Liar.”

One of the men holding his wings dug a knife into the sensitive skin beneath the feathers, causing Castiel to cry out once more.

_Dean,_ he thought helplessly, _don’t come down. Don’t be stupid. Stay –_

“Hang on,” one of the men said. Cas’s heart sank like a stone. “What’s that in the tree up there? What’s that – ” There was a horrible choking sound. Castiel’s head snapped up in time to see the man fall down, an arrow caught in his throat.

An instant later, arrows began to rain from the sky, striking thugs down left and right. Two of the three men holding Castiel disappeared, fleeing into the woods. Castiel took his opportunity to kick out at the third man, catching him in the leg and knocking him to the ground. Whirling around, ignoring the flood of pain in his wing, Castiel pulled a knife from his boot and buried it in the man’s chest.

He turned around to see that everyone else had been struck down or fled for their lives. A moment later, Dean Winchester landed on the ground in an ungainly heap. He disentangled himself and leapt up, arrow nocked, his eyes sweeping the clearing.

“You got them all,” Cas said, and fell to his knees. The bow clattered to the ground as Dean sprang forward to catch Castiel before he hit the forest floor.

“Shit, Cas,” Dean said, his voice hoarse and frightened. “I fucked up again.”

“No,” Cas said. “You came back. You should have run, Dean.”

“And leave you? Are you insane?”

“I’m supposed to be _your_ bodyguard,” Cas reminded him, “not the other way around.”

“Fuck that,” Dean said, and then he was kissing Castiel, and Cas felt a jolt of adrenaline that had nothing to do with the fighting shoot through him. He reached out and cupped Dean’s face in his hands and kissed him back, kissed him until the pain in his wing grew too powerful to ignore and he fell backwards again, gasping.

Dean was already rummaging in the pack for the salve. “Shit,” he whispered. He stooped down and picked up some shards of broken glass from the forest floor: the remains of Castiel’s precious salve. “Cas, what do I do? How can I help you?”

But Castiel was sliding in and out of consciousness now. He felt Dean move close to him again, touch his face, heard Dean speaking but couldn’t understand the words. Everything was dark and strange and confusing, and the only thing he recognized was Dean, Dean’s hands on his own, Dean’s voice in his ear, but Dean was slipping away, away…

 

* * *

 

It was morning. Sunlight streamed through the treetops, and a warm body was pressed against Castiel’s own. He moved his head a little and Dean’s hair tickled his chin. Gingerly, as slowly as he could, he moved his left wing. He was shocked to find that he could, with only an echo of pain rippling through him.

“Dean,” he whispered, and the body beside him stirred. Dean rolled over and looked up into Castiel’s face, his own breaking into a smile.

“How do you feel?” Dean murmured, pushing himself up on one elbow.

“Better,” said Castiel. “Much, much better.”

“Do you think you’re well enough to travel?”

Castiel frowned, stretching each of his wings very carefully, and then getting ever so slowly to his feet. Before he was even to his knees, Dean was there, one hand protectively around his waist, the other gripping his wrist, helping him to rise. Cas swayed a little, his balance shaky, but Dean held him steady.

“I think so,” Cas said finally. “What did you do, Dean? How did you – how did you fix me?”

Dean snorted. He was darting around their campsite, whisking the last of their belongings into their packs, both of which he slung over his own shoulders, in addition to Castiel’s bow and arrows. He looked like he might topple over from the weight of everything, but somehow he managed to walk along at Castiel’s plodding pace.

“I didn’t exactly fix you,” Dean said. “I went hunting for some herbs and mixed together a sort of – poultice – and I guess it worked.”

“A poultice?” Cas repeated, bemused. “Where on earth did you learn to make one of those?”

Dean shrugged noncommittally. “Oh, you know. Picked it up somewhere.”

Cas wanted to ask further questions, but the mere act of staying on his feet was taking up most of his energy, so he let it go. The two of them walked on in silence, pausing only occasionally to drink some water or for Castiel to rest, until at last they reached the outskirts of another town.

It was a larger village than most that they had passed through before. Dean threw a cloak over Castiel’s shoulders to hide his wings, but there was nothing they could do to dampen the sheer otherness of Castiel’s appearance and demeanor. Cas walked with his eyes cast down, hood up, Dean shuffling along beside him, still weighed down by two packs and several weapons.

They moved as quickly and inconspicuously as they could, but still Castiel felt the gaze of the villagers boring through his hood, and he felt a prickle down his spine that had nothing to do with his injuries.

They headed straight for the nearest inn, where the innkeeper peered suspiciously at the two of them from behind his spectacles until Dean scattered a handful of golden coins onto the counter. The man swept them up in a moment and directed them up a set of winding stairs.

At last they reached their room, a dingy, low-ceilinged chamber hardly larger than a cupboard. But Castiel had eyes only for the bed, musty and hard though it was. He collapsed on top of it, rolling slowly to his side to avoid crushing his left wing. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly. He hadn’t realized how much of a toll their journey had taken on him until now that he was finally able to rest.

“Do you want me to put some more of the poultice on it?” Dean asked quietly.

“Yes,” Castiel breathed, without opening his eyes.

He felt the bed dip beside him, felt the warm presence of Dean at his back. Dean rubbed the poultice into Castiel’s injury, and he almost gasped aloud with pleasure. He wasn’t sure how Dean had done it – the salve that had broken had been specially made for him by fae healers – but somehow Dean had managed to, if not replicate, at least closely emulate its effects.

He must have nodded off, because when he next opened his eyes, the room was pitch black. Castiel turned, blinking in the darkness, and his elbow bumped against another shape in the darkness. “You fell asleep,” Dean murmured drowsily, his arms moving to encircle Cas. “I guess my poultice worked?”

“Better than I would have thought possible,” Cas said. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Anytime.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“These thugs, they’re after you. You, specifically. Once could have been a fluke, but twice –”

“I know.” Dean sighed. “They’re looking for me. And they know that you’re travelling with me.”

“They must have eyes all over,” Castiel murmured. “As soon as we entered this village, I felt –”

“Me, too,” said Dean.

“Why did you leave the palace, Dean? Where are we going?”

Dean was silent for a long time. “Why were you cast out of the Great Army? Why are you all on your own?”

“I… I committed a great crime, in the eyes of my people.”

Castiel hesitated. Dean didn’t speak, but Cas could feel the tension in his arms as he waited for him to continue.

“I saved a human life,” Castiel said finally. “At the expense of one of my own people. A little girl… She was trapped, Dean. Her house was burning. I heard her screaming. I saved her. I left my men behind, in the middle of a fight. And one of them was killed.”

He closed his eyes briefly. He felt Dean’s lips touch his forehead, the ghost of a kiss. “This was a long time ago,” Castiel said. “Almost a hundred years, I think. But the memory of my people is longer. I will never be one of them again.”

“You did the right thing,” Dean said quietly.

“I know,” said Cas. “In the end… my life as an outcast… all of it was worth it. She was worth it. In the end. And besides…” He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Dean’s. “If I hadn’t been cast out all those years ago, I never would have met you.”

Dean chuckled.

“Where are we going, Dean?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Dean said. “We’re almost there.”

Cas was too exhausted to keep asking. Instead he felt in the darkness for Dean’s chin, so that he could pull him in for a kiss. They lay like that for a long time, curled around each other, kissing leisurely but deeply, until they both fell asleep once more.

 

* * *

 

Neither Cas nor Dean felt the need to linger in this town, which both of them felt harbored far too many pairs of unfriendly eyes. They packed up first thing in the morning – Castiel shouldering his own pack and bow, deaf to Dean’s protests – and departed, cloaks on and hoods up.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?” Cas asked.

“We’re going we–”

“Yes, west, I understand,” Cas grunted. “But how can I help guide us there if I still don’t know –”

The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a dozen loud yells. A moment ago they had been walking down the forest path, quite alone; now, all of a sudden, they were surrounded. A dozen hooded men, swords drawn, had formed a circle around Dean and Cas, leaving no room for escape. Cas hadn’t even heard them coming.

Dean had drawn his sword, but he stood frozen, his eyes darting from one hooded man to the next. He looked back at Cas, and his face hardened. Castiel couldn’t hide the defeat in his expression, not from Dean. He couldn’t fight again. Not now. Not this time.

Dean turned back to face the men encircling them, twirling his sword in his hands as though he were about to leap into action at any moment. A few of the thugs exchanged glances, chuckling.

Then, just as Castiel thought Dean was ready to lunge into the fray, instead he pulled something from beneath his shirt, the amulet on its leather cord, and held it high above his head. _“Displodo!”_ he shouted, his voice ringing out into the forest.

Nothing happened. Several of the men laughed outright, and the tallest of them stepped forward, lowering his hood to reveal a scarred, leering face. “Let’s finish this,” he said.

BOOM.

The earth shook beneath Castiel’s feet. He lost his balance and fell, landing hard on his back in a mess of branches and leaves. His wing erupted in pain once again, and his vision flared white.

Their would-be attackers were shouting, frightened, their circle ruptured. And in the midst of them, overlooked in the confusion, was Dean. He leapt and dodged and dove, his sword a bright silver blur as he stabbed and parried, taking advantage of the thugs’ hysteria to mow them down without mercy.

But within a few seconds the remaining kidnappers had regained their bearings and begun to put up a fight. Castiel shouted, kicking out against the forest floor, trying to get to his feet even as his wing screamed in agony.

The last thing he saw before he drifted into unconsciousness was Dean, his freckled face bloodstained but determined, as he carved through the air with the beautiful sword he had forged himself.

 

* * *

 

Castiel’s first thought upon waking was that he had had quite enough of being knocked unconscious. His second thought was to wonder at how incredibly comfortable he was, presumably still lying on the forest floor, surrounded by the broken bodies of attempted assassins.

But, upon opening his eyes, he found this to be far from the case. Instead he found himself in a brightly lit room, lying on an obscenely soft mattress, his wings stretched out, almost painlessly, beneath him.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.” There was a young man sitting cross-legged in a chair beside Castiel’s bed. He had been reading a massive book bound in red leather, which he closed with a snap. Cas had never before seen this youth, who had shoulder-length hair and kind brown eyes, but somehow he was achingly familiar.

Then the man leaned forward, and a necklace swung out from beneath his shirt collar. An amulet on a leather cord, the twin to Dean’s. Cas knew in an instant who this person must be. The young prince Winchester held out his hand, smiling. “Hello, Castiel,” he said brightly. “My name is Sam. Welcome to the Sanctum.”

Castiel stared. Stared at Sam Winchester, who resembled his brother not so much in looks but unquestionably in mannerisms. Stared at the picture windows surrounding his bed, which looked out onto an intricate web of stone towers and pathways. And stared at the leather book, which had floated out of Sam’s lap and slotted itself into an open spot on the nearest bookshelf.

“You’re a mage,” Castiel murmured, unable to keep the sheer astonishment from his voice. It was extremely rare for a human to have magical gifts, much less a prince of the realm. “How… how can you be a mage? Why didn’t Dean tell me?”

“There is magic in the Winchester bloodline,” Sam explained, getting to his feet and turning to pace beside Castiel’s bed. “And although it has been many generations since the last Winchester mage, that fact has always been kept closely guarded.”

“Of course,” Castiel said. “If the humans knew their royals could do magic –”

“They’d never trust us,” Sam finished. “Just as they ran the fae out of our country long ago, they would do the same to their own rulers. The distrust of the magical arts in this country runs deep, as I’m sure you know. So when Dean and I were growing up,” he continued, “and it became clear that I had the Gift…”

“They sent you away,” Castiel guessed, “so that you’d be safe.”

“And so that I could learn,” Sam said. He raised a hand, examining the silver “W” tattoo on his inner wrist. “The Sanctum has existed for thousands of years, a place for human and fae mages alike to train, learn, and research. To work to build a better world for everyone, even those who distrust us merely because we have power.”

Castiel’s eyes widened as memories came flooding back. “The explosion… Is Dean – ?”

“Dean has no magic,” Sam said. “I made that amulet for him many years ago.” He reached for his own, rubbing a thumb over its burnished surface. “It is linked to mine. When Dean calls, when he needs my help… I hear. And I am able to answer.”

He gave a sad smile. “I haven’t been home in many years, Castiel, but Dean comes to visit me as often as he can. The location of the Sanctum is a very closely guarded secret. Hardly anyone apart from we who live here even knows it exists.”

“Which is why Dean never told me where we were going,” Castiel said with a sigh. “He didn’t trust me to keep the secret. To keep you safe.”

“Castiel,” Sam said gently, “Dean brought you here. It would seem that my brother trusts you very much indeed.”

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Castiel was guided by a serene fae with silver wings to a tree-lined courtyard. Dean, one arm in a sling but a smile on his face, slid his uninjured hand into Castiel’s and led him to a bench beside a trickling fountain. Sam, his head buried in his book again, glanced up as they passed and winked at Cas.

“Well, then,” said a gruff voice. “Is everybody here?”

“It’s just the three of us, Bobby,” Sam said dryly.

A human mage, bearded and a little rough around the edges in Castiel’s opinion, appeared around the edge of fountain. He shook Castiel’s hand, his grip vicelike. “You must be the fae the boys have been telling me about,” he said. “Thanks for looking out for our Dean.”

“Dean mostly looked out for himself,” Castiel said modestly. “And for me. I wasn’t much help in the end.” Dean squeezed Cas’s hand.

“You saved his skin more than once, and that’s what counts in my book,” said Bobby. “Now we’ve been looking into Dean’s attackers over the past few days, and we think we know who they are.” He sighed. “Even though King John and Queen Mary have ruled peacefully over the realm for over twenty years, there are always dissidents. Rogue groups of nobles and peasants alike who think they know best, and want to overthrow the Winchester regime. It seems they planned to do that by using you, Dean, to get to your brother, and then killing you both.”

Dean and Sam exchanged glances. “Luckily,” Bobby continued, “thanks to Dean and our fae friend here, we’ve thwarted them for now. But this group is a determined one, and their connections run deep. We believe some of the palace nobles are involved, but our network is still investigating. Dean, you’re welcome to stay here at the Sanctum for as long as –”

“I’m going back,” Dean said. Everyone stared at him. “I have no choice,” he continued. “These people will keep coming after Sammy and me, and our parents, until we manage to stop them once and for all. Cas.”

He turned to Castiel and locked eyes with him. “Castiel. Will you come back with me to the palace, and take up command of the Royal Guard? Will you help me find and eradicate these insurgents who threaten my parents’ regime and legacy?”

“My prince,” Castiel said solemnly, “I am with you. Until the end.”

He tried to get down from the bench, intending to swear an oath to his prince on his knees, but Dean caught his wrist.

“A kiss will do,” Dean said, laughing. Cas smiled, and leaned in. 


End file.
